


Paying For The Profit

by CharbroilLaFlamme



Series: Bioshock: Measurement of A Father [1]
Category: BioShock 1 & 2 (Video Games)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BioShock Spoilers, Cigarettes, Gen, Mild to strong language, Out of character probably, Prison, Rapture (BioShock), Smoking, Wrongful Imprisonment, gene splicing, non Canon, only shippy if you want it to be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 13:48:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15390087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharbroilLaFlamme/pseuds/CharbroilLaFlamme
Summary: Ryan called him a whippoorwill—Sinclair—a songbird harbinger of death.He had doomed all of Rapture to a complete collapse—the Great Man was always one to blow everything out of proportion. And when he did get things a bit out of proportion, people died. Or disappeared, spirited away.Sinclair lost his livelihood, his company, and ability to get a comfortable night’s sleep—all because Ryan was told one day that Sinclair was in cahoots with miss Lamb’s crowd.Ryan couldn’t have that, so Sinclair was taken away, much like the she-devil herself, Doc Lamb.His whole life—annexed by Ryan.It was planned for him to serve out a sentence in the detention facility, up until he volunteered for the Protector program.What a time for the regret to kick in.





	Paying For The Profit

Sinclair puffed on his cigarette as he watched the Little One and her guardian interact as father and daughter.

Hugging, holding hands. The Little One giggling like kids always did. Their big yellow, glowing, inhuman eyes looking up to their metal fathers with some form of admiration. Some sort of... _love_.

It made Sinclair shudder.

He was all but fixated. Thinking. It was all so... _pitiful_. But he hadn’t any pity to spare.

He was barely aware as someone joined him to watch.

“So you’ve been watching this for quite some time, eh?”

“You got that right.” Sinclair replied, rearranging the cigarette in his lips in thought. “Not exactly _high entertainment_ , but it’ll do.”

“You ever wonder what it’s like for ‘em?” The other said. “Poor things—just sleep walking? And those _kids_?”

“Personally? No.” Sinclair mumbled, flicking ashes off his cigarette. “An’ I prefer not to think about them as _human_ , see?” He looked back out on the scene. “All them Little Sisters are for is makin’ bank.” He delivered his smarmiest grin. “Sir, we’re makin’ a _killing_ , it isn’t _my_ concern who loses—long as _my_ interests gain.”

“Sorry to hear that.” The man said. “Anyway, I’m here to talk to you.”

”What about?” Sinclair said. “Something happen?”

”A guy named Stanley was talking about you.”

“Stanley?” Sinclair parroted, taking a drag. “What’s that weasel up to, now?” He exhaled.

“Wanted to let you know the deal’s off.” He rustled something out of his coat and Sinclair felt it, cold on the back of his neck.

He dropped his cigarette and put his hands up carefully. “Look—I don’t think this is really necessary...”

“Ryan wants you locked up.”

“ _What did Stanley say?_ ” Sinclair said coldly. “That damn fool...”

“Oh, he spilled all, buddy.” He said cheerfully. “You’re not very popular among Ryan’s club, and your friends in Persephone’d love to see you get your comeuppance. Better question’d be: what _didn’t_ he say?”

“O’ course, now—gun down, please? I’ll come quietly...”

The cold pressure pulled away and something else came swinging hard across the back of Sinclair’s head. “Well, coming quietly has never been your forte, has it, Sinclair?” He said. “You just keep on fighting and fighting... Ryan wants your prison annexed, and you’re in the way of that.”

 

* * *

 

 Sinclair was now sitting in a cell, in his own place— _Persephone_.

However, it had been unceremoniously seized by Ryan Industries.

He knew now that he was not very flattering in prison stripes.

He hadn’t had a cigarette in some time. A few days. Weeks, maybe? It was all blurring into one big indistinct fog.

“Hey, _Sinclair_.”

Sinclair looked from his lonely corner of his cell—he was allowed a few little decorations and glanced briefly at a pinup poster on his wall—he concluded that the voice came from the other side of the cement wall to his left.

The voice was quiet, but the two were close enough to hear each other.

Sinclair replied. “Yeah?”

“Isn’t it just so... _ironic_?” The voice said incredulously. “That the man who built this place is now a prisoner in its walls?”

“Who are you?” Sinclair said. Apprehensive, he’d grown jumpy since he’d been caged up.

“Well, everyone just calls me Johnny—Johnny Topside. Can’t remember my own goddamned name, now. Lost it at some point between the ‘therapy’ and testing.” Sinclair could nearly hear his brow furrowing. “S’pose it doesn’t matter now...”

“Topside? Wait a second...” Sinclair blearily remembered the moniker—a temporary name for the man who descended from above, discovering Rapture. The man’s real name slipped his mind. But he knew it... _somewhere_.

“That squirrelly little _runt_ , Stanley...” he said, he had to breathe, full of rage as he spoke. “How I’d _love_ to wrap my hands around his scrawny neck...”

The man’s voice was hoarse, implacable, but there was a hint of what was vaguely midwest. There was _something_ there, Sinclair was certain.

“You an’ me both.” Sinclair mumbled.

“He fed Ryan a story that I was some sort of... spy. Then next thing I know, I’m here... in _your_ neighbourhood. Guy told me to my face that he respected me, called me a hero.” He let out a sound Sinclair was shocked to hear—laughter, rueful and vague. “Well... it hasn’t been the _first_ time a newsman’s lied and smeared a name, though, has it? And guess what _else_ , Sinclair? I’m slated to become one of those _things_. Said I’d fit perfectly in the suit.” He scoffed. “Turns out my protests don’t mean anything to them who do the splicing and conditioning; they can fuck up my DNA all they want, they’re getting paid for it. I hear they’re getting paid even _better_ —now that _you’ve_ been dethroned.”

“Look, I... I can’t do anything, Topside, I can’t.”

“Hah. Seems being a former _slumlord_ doesn’t mean too much, we’re _all_ equal down here. But even if you could, would you _really_?” Johnny whispered. “We’re just investments to you—products to be sold. In fact, I _finally_ know what it’s like to truly be _dehumanised_. Now, I’m here, constantly trying to find a way out. But every time I see a light, something comes along and snuffs it out.”

Sinclair let out a long, hopeless breath. “Nobody _ever_ escapes Persephone, I’ve seen to that... everyone who kicks up a fuss comes here, an’ they all just _disappear_ from the public eye—it’s what this place was for, dealing with problems Ryan wasn’t man enough to admit he was bothered by.”

“There _really_ isn’t a way out?” Johnny said sadly. “At all?”

“No.” Sinclair said. “There isn’t.”

“Well, isn’t that just a crying shame that you’re here now? Now you’ll see, Sinclair. The fruits of your labour. You’ll see what happens to those of us who are in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Sinclair saw guards coming for Topside. “But hey, at least you turned a profit. Goodbye, Sinclair.”

Sinclair rushed to the bars to see. Topside went quietly, but reluctantly, head hanging down in submission.

Sinclair knew where it’d lead. Right into one of them big ugly iron maiden-type suits. The hulking, groaning ones he’d seen go mad from Little Sister withdrawal before.

“ _Wait!_ ” Sinclair called at the last possible second.

When the guards actually _stopped_ , Sinclair was forced to finish what he was saying, he swallowed loudly. “Even if you don’t leave him, take me too.”

He could see Topside’s bag-covered head tilt inquisitively to the side—paying some semblance of attention to Sinclair.

“That’s funny, coming out of _you_ , Augustus,” one of them said after a few seconds. Obviously, the wardens—formerly under his command—took joy in being able to call him so informally. “What could _you_ offer to the Protector program?”

“Well, I’m _volunteering_ , ain’t I?” Sinclair put up a wall of confidence, grinning wolfishly. “Why take one at a time when you can get _twice_ the results—an’ _two times_ the payment? it’s simple business, boys.”

 The two guards talked between each other—the bigger one kept a hold on Topside. “Fine.” The smaller one went on to open his gate. “We’ll take _both_ of you, then.” He said.

“Glad you can tell when you gotta good deal cut out for you.” Sinclair said assuredly.

Sinclair had a burlap sack slipped over his head, allowing him limited vision through the crude, flaying fibres.

He didn’t think he’d find himself doing something so drastic for anyone. _Ever_.

But Ryan was against him. Lamb was against him.

Even Topside was against him—sure, they didn’t let him go after he volunteered, but it was something, at least.

He wasn’t _vying_ for Topside’s respect, or anything.

So why was he forfeiting his life for him?

Sinclair was willing to bet that it was out of spite.

Sinclair bowed his head as an unnaturally _uncomfortable_ feeling settled in his gut.

No. _Repentance._

Maybe he couldn’t do anything for anyone else, but he could definitely show Topside a thing or two about what he was willing to give up.

And if that was free will, then so be it.

_Sinclair, you damned fool._

**Author's Note:**

> Notes!:
> 
> — Contrary to what Sinclair’s thinking, he is doing this slightly out of spite toward Topside who didn’t think he’d do anything—let alone sacrifice himself.
> 
> — Sinclair barely considers the Big Daddies or Little Sisters human at all, so being put in this position’ll definitely school him on it.


End file.
